


One Day More

by Bright_Boisterous_Bananas



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy, The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: 1830s, Adventure, Bantering, Elements of Les Misérable, Elements of the Old Guard, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, France - Freeform, French Revolution, Humor, Immortality, Immortals, Kindness, Kissing, Les Miserables - Freeform, Love, Pining, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, The Old Guard - Freeform, True Love, Viva La France!, all the fun tropes, bed sharing, french is a beautiful language, friendship too, goodness, healthy love, old guard, well deserved canoodles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:54:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26514031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bright_Boisterous_Bananas/pseuds/Bright_Boisterous_Bananas
Summary: The Old Guard AU and Les Misérable AU.Hiding away in a small town of France. Rey owns a shoe factory where she employs and provides for many villagers.Poe Dameron, a single father, struggles to provide for his daughter.France is in turmoil, and a series of events uproots him, yet again. Just when he thought he was safe. His only desire is for a good life for his daughter.
Relationships: Poe Dameron & Rey, Poe Dameron/Rey
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16





	One Day More

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MASD_1138](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MASD_1138/gifts).



> This is dedicated to my friend [MASD_1138](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MASD_1138)  
> Thank for letting me pick your brain about all the French words I wanted to incorporate in this! I LOVE YOU SO MUCH! I hope I did you proud!
> 
> Glossary of terms:  
> -la propriétaire: "owner" (Rey owns the factory)  
> -leather press: A machine, used to cut leather (can be big or small)  
> -eyelet: Used in shoe making for laces.  
> -Desjoyeaux: Rey's last name and also the name of the Factory, It means "Of gems."
> 
> Thank you so much for checking this out! (more to come)
> 
> Viva La France!

**1832**

Poe is fashioning a leather rose with the scraps from his table.

“Let me guess.” Snap declares playfully as he stitches his eyelet into the shoe. “Is it for Mademoiselle?”

“No!” Poe pushes his friend playfully before taking another scrap to add to his flower. 

He’s been very quiet and focused for the last hour. He finished his work early, as he always does on a Friday. Many of the other workers do too, and Mademoiselle is kind enough to let them use scraps for their small pleasures.

“Are you quite sure? I’ve seen how you look at la propriétaire.”

“Hush!” Poe’s ears turn crimson and he keeps his eyes on his work.

He steals a glance around at the other tables, no one heard, he sighs in relief. But inwardly he’s smiling. Mademoiselle Renée, la propriétaire, has been staying late at the factory repairing the leather press. He stayed late with her, every night this week, keeping her company. His knowledge of the press proved useful. 

He can’t explain the quickening of his heart when her presence blesses the room. In truth, he loses all reason at the sight of her.

“I’m making a rose for my Brigitte.” He mumbles, rolling up the sleeves of his chemise. 

He smiles at the thought of his little daughter with her flaming Red hair and her impish features.

He’s desperate to please her, after the pain he put her through these past few months. 

Since _it_ happened, they’ve been running from place to place, never able set down roots. Something would always arise, and his true self would be revealed. His daughter always cried, never understanding the urgency to leave because not even she knows the truth.

“A rose?” Snap squints at the folded leather, stroking his beard in contemplation. “It appears we have a sewer rat on our table.” He announces, his round stomach bounces in joyful mirth. 

The nearby workers erupt in laughter. Snap ruffles Poe’s brown curls playfully. “Thankfully, your daughter is easy to please, and she’ll love it all the same.”

“You’re wasting leather.” A sneering voice approaches.

Monsieur Hux, the foreman, draws up the table, looking like he just ate a rotten apple.

“La propriétaire is not paying for your foolishness.” Hux turns on his heel, nose in the air.

Cursing that greasy red hair, and the gold buttons on the pompous frock coat, Poe turns his eyes back to his rose. 

Realizing he needs another eyelet to secure the flower to the stem, he rises from the table to fetch one.

Hux sees Poe get up and subtly trips him as he passes, sliding the toe of his boot just far enough so no one would notice.

As he falls, the soft skin of his forearm drags on the corner of the leather press. 

Instantly blood falls in hot threads. Crying out in pain, Poe grips his arm, pressing hard. Blood stains his waistcoat and brown trousers.

The nearby workers yell in alarm and rush around him, helping him up. Monsieur Hux grins sourly and slips further back.

“Let me see your arm!” Amilyn comes forward. A tall thin woman with a kind face. “I have some medical training.”

“No!” Poe yanks his arm away but she’s too quick and too strong.

Holding his wrist, she uses her apron to wipe the blood. 

A gasp floods through the group, like a harrowing wind through the fields.

There is no gash. Not even a mark.

Poe tries to wrench his arm free but others press in closer for a look, holding him still. Amilyn frantically swabs the rest of the blood away, her eyes slowly filling with terror as healthy tan flesh appears beneath the mass of red liquid.

The tension in the room is palpable as silence falls. 

“Witchcraft.” She breathes, looking up at him.

The word repeats and echoes, carrying on varied tones of fear and anger.

His breathing is impossible to control, as the eyes around him become accusatory. He looks at Snap for help. “I’m not--I didn’t--please.”

Snap’s nostrils are flaring silently, anger seething from his eyes. A look Poe was hoping never to endure from his best friend.

“Out of my way!” Monsieur Hux is ramming others aside to get a view. “You!” he snarls, “It would appear that your time at Desjoyeaux Factory has come to an end, Monsieur Dameron.” His expression is shifting dangerously, into a cruel smile.

“Please--I can explain--” Poe is panicking, he needs the work, for his daughter.

“Save it for la propriétaire!” Grabbing Poe by the collar he hauls him away to the office above the work room.

Dragging Poe by the color, like he is an untamed animal, Hux pulls him up the stairs. 

A truth is well fixed in Poe’s mind; witchcraft is punishable by the guillotine. His stomach twists. 

Witchcraft is most certainly, _not_ Poe’s quarry. 

He frantically runs through his list of excuses, silently pleading with God for mercy, for his daughter’s sake. Who will raise her if he dies?

“Mademoiselle!” Monsieur Hux’s words are rife with ridicule, as he bursts into the room, towing Poe behind him. “Monsieur Dameron has been meddling in witchcraft!”

Mercilessly, Hux crumples the leather flower that Poe has spent the last hour perfecting and tosses it onto the floor.

Hot mist clouds Poe’s eyes, but he doesn’t dare move.

Renée is solemn, standing at the window, overlooking her factory. Her brown waves cascade over her shoulders in such a way that removes the air from Poe’s lungs.

“Thank you, Monsieur Hux, you may leave us.” Her tone commands respect, and her eyes don’t leave the window.

The disappointment on Hux’s face is painfully obvious; he clearly wanted to stay for the verbal lashing.

“But--”

“And if you are unkind to Monsieur Dameron again, your position as foreman will be abruptly removed and your destitution in the streets will be considered a personal triumph.” She adds crisply, her gaze doesn’t leave the window.

Poe smirks at Hux, preening a little; he has never seen Mademoiselle Renée adopt so harsh a measure.

“Gloating does not become you, Monsieur Dameron.” She turns her head, and hazel eyes pierce his soul.

That stops his revelling.

“Leave us.” She says to Hux.

He grunts in defeat and slams the door.

Renée, walks to the crumpled flower, reverently picking it up from the floor. Her brown skirt brushing the wood lightly as she stoops. 

She dresses simply, in a white chemise, and a stays for support with an apron. Despite her fortune, she never bothers with bonnets, or silk dresses like the other members of the gentry; practicality is first in all things.

Poe admires her boldness; luxury never lured him anyway--he shakes himself, she is his superior and nothing more.

She carefully smoothes the petals, restoring it to its former glory before handing it back to Poe.

“Is this for Beebee?” She asks with a warm smile that makes Poe’s heart jump up and pound in his eyes.

He smiles at the nickname for his daughter. He has brought Beebee to work once or twice, to show her around. On one such occasion, Mademoiselle played with Brigitte, tossing a ball of leather back and forth. The two looked quite content as they laughed together. Mademoiselle has called her Beebee ever since. 

“Yes.” Poe takes the flower, he is relieved it wasn’t ruined, holding it close to his chest.

It’s then he realizes his hands are shaking. Surely, Mademoiselle will reprimand him and then turn him over to the authorities.

“Have you been having strange dreams?” She asks with real interest in her eyes. Concern pulls at her youthful features.

An odd question, one he was not prepared for, and one he definitely thinks is not relevant to matter at hand.

“No, Mademoiselle.” Lies.

Poe’s been having strange dreams for months, since _it_ started; that’s not even the crazy part. He dreamed about Mademoiselle Renée before he even met her. And now it’s other people, strangers, with vivid faces, plaque him each night. 

Renée sighs, walking to her desk, “How shall I persuade you to speak openly?” She asks it more to herself.

Poe grows more confused by the second.

Opening a drawer she pulls out a small knife. “Come here, there is something I must show you.”

He walks forward stupidly, befuddled at her calm demeanor. Why hasn’t she sent for the police yet? Shouldn’t she be screaming in anger and demeaning his very existence? Isn’t that the proper course of action for “witchcraft”? Which he reminds himself is not the case.

He stops, standing in front of her.

“This may upset you, please do not scream, we don’t want to draw attention.”

She raises the knife to her upturned palm.

“No! I pray you stop. Please! It would be the end of my sanity if I let you harm yourself!” Poe is unhinged, fear and worry coursing through his handsome features. His hands clasp her wrist.

“Your concern is admirable.” She moves his hands away gently, “Please, just watch.”

Breathing hard, Poe’s eyes bulge as she drags the knife across her palm. Blood pools against the blade, hauntingly staining the floor where it drips. She hisses through her teeth at the pain. The sound rips his heart in two. He resists the urge to stop her.

She grimaces for a moment as he grabs a handkerchief from her desk to swab the blood.

Seconds, it takes seconds, as she wipes up the liquid; Before his eyes, her pink flesh draws together, rapidly healing until it’s like there was not cut at all.

Staggering back, Poe gasps. 

_She’s like me._

Her eyes are sad, distant, far away. “Please remain calm Monsieur Dameron.” She wipes the knife, returning it to the drawer.

Poe is clutching his hair, his thoughts whipping faster than icy hail in a windstorm. “You’re...you’re…” he gulps.

“Like you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
